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Breaking Up: Fandom Edition


Warning: article contains non-specific mentions of triggers, trauma, and fandom safety.

Being a part of a fandom is like stepping into an alternate universe. Undoubtedly, each universe will have similarities to our original plane of existence. The interesting, and sometimes dangerous, part takes form by means of the differences: the things that remain unseen in other corners of fan celebration. These differences can take shape through behaviors, artistic influence, methodic interaction – whatever you can think of that can form its own cultural emphasis on the fandom-specific ‘verse.

A fandom its own universe, it has a culture of its own that is dependent on the medium, and those who frequent them are aliens shaped by that culture’s nature.

I, for one, am not a fandom jumper. I don’t possess the ability to hop from one area of interest to the next in a frequent fashion; my multi-universe jet pack is in a constant state of disrepair. I do, however, hold a current visa in a few old favorites, and visiting them is like returning to the site of a fond memory or the rekindling of a fire that went out for reasons one shoves to the back of their mind. They’re day excursions, sometimes long holidays, but generally speaking I find one or two places to call home and spend at least six months out of the year as a permanent resident.

Like finding yourself, knowing intimately that you belong somewhere, becoming a part of a fandom is a lot like falling in love. It sucks you in, it teaches you a specific set of values and rewards you with them, and it is mutually perpetuated. A fandom, like a relationship, cannot exist without the efforts of those involved – and that’s what makes it beautiful.

That is, until the universe becomes a black hole.

Breakups aren't just between people; they can be between you and your fandom as well. We all go through periods of different passions and something new and shiny can hold appeal that old loves just don’t have anymore. But then there are the rough breakups, the ones that you don’t want to have to go through, but are necessary for everyone involved. These are the ones that tear at you from the inside out; the ones that inflate and expand until they collapse in on themselves. These are the ones that leave nothing but empty space in their wake, to navigate and mourn on one’s own.

Before I go any further, let me just make one thing abundantly clear.

Like any space that is created out of enthusiasm and love, your fandom should be safe. It should not be somewhere that you feel targeted, marginalized, or triggered. Above all else, a fandom is a community, and that means it should be accessible to anyone who chooses to participate.

Recently, I left a fandom I’d felt particularly connected to because it was anything but safe. The absolutely juvenile behavior that took place there was beyond my means to tackle, and the separation happened both begrudging and regretfully. This was not an occurrence over a difference in opinions or styles, but in the choice of some with more resources than others to alienate and destroy those they did not agree with. My fandom was a warzone, one I did not even realize existed until I was placed on the side labeled as “enemy” and fired upon.

Now, I’m coming from this experience as both a spectator and an avid content creator, so I’ve heard most possible iterations of the “fandom safety vs free expression” arguments. I’ve read the “Your Fandom is Not Your Safe Space” mass post on tumblr, I’ve spoken to other authors and artists with varying degrees of opinions on the subject, and I’ve struggled with my own definition of what is considered “acceptable” in a space shared with children, the ignorant but well intended, the easily triggered, and the assholes of the internet.

More noteworthy: the majority of the content I have been responsible for creating can be incredibly triggering.

As someone who creates art as a way to control and better understand my own experiences, I’m fully aware of the effects certain content may have on someone. In many cases, what I create is designed to replicate difficult and potentially traumatic experiences. It is meant to inspire an investment of emotion, to build awareness, but its purpose is never to force that on someone.

No one should ever be caught by surprise by something like that, especially not in a space meant to celebrate something they love.

The fandom that I left was populated vastly by people, content creators and spectators alike, who felt that providing the appropriate warnings in their descriptions, tags, or what have you was in some way detracting from the experience of the art. Things that were intended to startle just didn’t have shock value unless they scarred the audience. Sweet stories turned dark before the readers could get their bearings, leaving them with images impossible to unsee. What was once a happy place for a diverse group of fans became a contest to see who could create the most controversial, upsetting content in order to define a new structure of fandom-verse society.

Like this, the fandom turned into its own battlefield. Any opinion that differed became prone to being targeted by hordes of “freedom seekers” looking to be the only ones who existed within the space. Spectators that would ask artists directly for specific warnings, as huge fans, would be dragged through the proverbial streets as if they’d done something wrong in seeking to both experience someone’s work and account for their own mental health.

Again, let me be clear. No one that I’ve ever interacted with (on both sides of the creator/fan struggle) asked anyone to stop making what they were making. No one questioned our right to paint, draw, or write. The singular request that was screamed into an unhearing ether was to simply provide warnings for triggering content. If the responsibility for labeling was placed on the creators, then the spectators could take whatever level of exposure they’d be comfortable with into their own hands. Removing certain content from the periphery has been made increasingly possible as more awareness of trauma spreads, and as the tools to do so are readily available to those of us experiencing our fandoms through our internet connection, it takes the burden off of both types of fans.

I did not leave my fandom because of a tagging war, but because of the culture of conflict that it created.

The content that I created focused on opinions that did not align with the populous. It did not directly challenge anyone, it did not demean anyone, and it did not affect anyone outside of those who chose to interact with it. I did have a number of intelligent conversations with people who both thanked me for sharing thoughts that they’d not been able to communicate, and those who appreciated what I’d made, but respectfully didn’t agree. I’d been a part of a small group that shared the work of less conceived art, despite difference in opinion. We were a happy collective, a diverse family, a misfit conglomerate.

Then, they began to disappear.

It happened quickly and quietly – we’d all joined the fandom around the same time (not particularly late, but certainly behind the ball) only to find our friends leaving without a word. It wasn’t until I had a public conversation with another fan (a very nice one, in which we discovered a lot about our fandom and how we’d been individually approaching an idea) that I knew I’d be cutting ties all too soon.

Sometimes, a break up happens because something unforgiveable is done. Sometimes, the spark fades and can’t be ignited again. Sometimes, a near thirty year old woman who writes nothing but anime pornography and has an astronomical follower count decides that she’s going to run a campaign against you until you’ve been blacklisted from the community.*

Sometimes, after you’ve decide to leave, dozens of other artists begin coming to you to share the same experience and invite you into their fandom safe havens.

My parting had been less quiet than the others – I left a note of indefinite hiatus on all works associated with that ‘verse and fielded any criticism as publicly as I could. I rejoined the fandom I’d put on hold to explore the new one (a mistake I will never make again – I love them far too dearly to ever be gone for too long), and realized just how wonderful they’d been all along. I began posting art publicly again, and though the response I received was much smaller in size, it was most certainly more welcome.

Breakups are hard, but they don’t have to ruin all things fandom-related.

I won’t pretend it doesn’t get to me when I get yet another email, private message, ask on tumblr looking to receive some kind of special piece of art because they weren’t the ones publicly degrading me. I won’t pretend I don’t get ideas for writing or paintings based on the fandom I left, and find myself disillusioned with the one that’s done nothing to support me because of it. What I will say is this: your fandom should be someplace that you can run around barefoot without fearing that someone is going to place glass in front of you just because they can. It should be something you turn to because you genuinely enjoy it, not because you feel obligated to continue. My fandom breakup was heart wrenching, but it ultimately led me to something I love so much more, full of people who allow each other to exist, and celebrate however they see fit.

*Note: In no way do I mean to degrade those who write pornography. The comment is to provide context to whom was instigating hate and punishment among the fandom.

Article originally posted on http://www.dragonfruitapp.com/breaking-fandom-edition/


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